The Softening

The evening’s light is painting the hills
golden, so I go out to drink in the hues.
To the west, the sky wears pastels.
I acknowledge the aerosol streaks that mar
the blue. I note the soft orchid color
floating above the horizon where the hills
meet the sky. But my eyes are drawn
to something nearer, to the outermost edges
of the trees, suddenly softer now,
with the first, subtle swelling of their buds.
The trees, I suppose, think nothing of it.
No more than we think of the miracle
of breath that goes on even while we sleep.
I smile and whisper to them, “Sweet dreams.”
My heart is singing at their signs.

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